


stuck together

by grimsgay



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Appendicitis, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Hospitals, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22539298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimsgay/pseuds/grimsgay
Summary: In the end, he does the only thing he knows how to do; he calls an ambulance, and hopes for the best.-------Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo!
Relationships: Gueira/Meis (Promare)
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1436884
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	stuck together

**Author's Note:**

> I screamed and complained about this prompt every second I was working on this, but it's finally done... 
> 
> Hello... please talk to me about GeuiMeis...

( i. )

There are two unusual factors when Meis returns, groceries in hand:

One.) Gueira is sitting on the couch watching television. Nothing out of the ordinary for most, but not a common occurrence for someone so incredibly active. Meis has seen him watch TV enough times to know that he just can’t sit still, even if he wants to. He’ll move around in his seat, he’ll twitch, he’ll pace back and forth. That’s just how he is.

Right now, he’s stationary. Meis isn’t certain he’s even seen the man blink.

But. Well. That’s not a cause for concern. It’s unusual, yes, but Meis just shrugs it off and goes about preparing dinner. It’s easier for him to think when he has something to do, and  _ oh  _ doesn’t he have things to think on.

Two.) Meis sets down the spatula he’s been cooking with. His plating is top-notch, per usual, and his stomach growls with anticipation - but when he calls Gueira over to eat, he’s met with a hand wave and a promise of ‘not hungry, I’ll eat later.’

And that. Well,  _ that’s _ concerning. 

Meis can’t even  _ remember  _ the last time Gueira turned down food. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, as though he’d ever receive an honest answer.

“Fine.”

_ Fine, he says. Isn’t it just  _ **_so_ ** _ funny. _

Meis has had more than enough time to adapt to Gueira’s self-sacrificing nature. Before, when they were still Burnish -  _ when they were still running _ \- survival was their top priority. There wasn’t time to stop for every minor scratch and bruise, every small headache, every moment someone felt ‘a little off’. They couldn’t afford to settle for long, so it became easier to silence any discomforts than to unnecessarily worry each other. 

Meis remembers exactly four occasions when he and Gueira were forced to stop, and all four were because they’d forgotten how to speak up. Things escalated too fast. They had to slow their pace. 

It’s not like that, now. They have a comfortable and safe apartment to rest in. But Meis knows it’s hard to change over a decade of habit. With a sigh, he places a gentle hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“So you’re not eating.” He pauses. “Listen… you can tell me if you’re unwell…”

Gueira bites his lip, and for a moment, Meis wonders if he’ll keep up his denial. He’s always been stubborn like that. But not now. He nods. “I… yeah. Sorry. Stomach is just bugging me a bit.”

It’s progress. Meis knows it can’t be that simple; turning down food of any kind was dangerous, before. Gueira might be more comfortable with voicing likes and dislikes now that food scarcity isn’t an issue, but he’s still never missed a meal. Meis should say something, push the issue, see if he can stomach just a bite or two - but Gueira has this distant look in his eyes, a lethargy he’s only seen amongst the sick. He’s never seen Geuira sick before but doesn’t want to push him if he feels like shit. Another sigh escapes him, this time in acquiescence. He moves his hand to Gueira’s forehead, lips pursed. 

“Well, I don’t think you have a fever.”

“I doubt you can tell by touch alone. Do you even know what a fever feels like?”

Probably not. His perception of heat has been permanently skewed thanks to the Promare. Meis huffs. “You’re lucid enough to tease me.”

“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m a funny guy.” Gueira’s laughter eases some of the anxiety rolling around the back of his mind, but it doesn’t eliminate it. There’s still a distinct feeling, somewhere in the back of his mind, that something is horribly wrong. Meis has always been the paranoid one, and Gueira, his anchor. Somehow they balance each other out. But when Gueira is in a bad place, it’s harder to convince his nerves that things will be okay. And yet.

Fixating on the small things isn’t going to help either of them. Meis knows this. So he forces the feeling down and settles next to his boyfriend on the couch with his dinner. He tries to focus on the television. It doesn’t work.

( ii. )

They end up watching a movie; some generic romantic comedy with abysmal writing and a plot Meis stopped following from the first scene. Gueira falls asleep partway through on his lap, and Meis can’t help but observe him. Hair ruffled more than usual. Mouth agape. Breathing rough and heavy. Despite his obvious state of distress earlier, he rests peacefully. For this, at least, Meis is grateful.

He watches the rest of the movie without really watching - the ending makes no sense no matter how many times he tries to connect the threads in his head. Mostly, he’s lost in the solitude of thought. It’s difficult to say if this domesticity is a gift - some reward for their patience and determination - or if it’s retribution. So much was done to them. Injustices that can never be atoned for, not fully. He should be grateful that they’re safe. That Gueira can afford to sleep off a stomach bug in the comforting embrace of a lover. 

But. 

It just doesn’t sit right. 

Meis learned long ago that handouts and gifts often come along with ulterior motives and hidden expectations. The only real way to get anything is hard work. That’s why he and Gueira are as stable as they are. They’ve fought through hell and back together for the chance to have an ideal life. Things are just like that.

And maybe they’ve earned what they have. Maybe. It’s just that, Meis will never be convinced that they’ve worked hard enough to deserve what they’ve been given, nor will he ever believe what they have is enough to erase the sins society committed against the Burnish. And therein lies his dilemma.

There’s a restlessness under his skin he can’t burn out. Not even Gueira can snuff that fire.

The movie ends, so Meis does his best to carry Gueira into the bedroom. Gueira is still limp and heavy in his arms, but his sleep isn’t as peaceful. Not anymore. He whines softly, eyes clenched tight, some invisible agony gripping his dreams. When Meis sets him down, he wakes.

“Uhg. Nap didn’t help much.”

“You don’t feel any better?” Gueira shakes his head and Meis frowns. It’s concerning. More than concerning. But still nothing more than an upset stomach. There’s no need to panic, he tells himself.  _ Not yet. Not yet. Not yet. _

“Worse.” And then Gueira is wincing in pain as he pulls himself out of bed, and Meis can do little but watch in case he collapses. “Might puke.”

_ ‘Might’ _ is not the word Meis would have used. Gueira makes it to the bathroom, but only just. Meis can do little other than kneel beside him and brush the hair out of his face. Gueira heaves and chokes up his lunch, and when his stomach finally gives him a moment to breathe, he rests his head against the toilet seat with a groan. Meis runs a shaky hand through his boyfriend’s hair, struggling to maintain his composure.

It’s concerning. Way more than concerning. But he still shouldn’t panic. It could be so much worse. This is just a little bug. Normal humans get them all the time. They’re normal humans, now. Gueira will be fine. And maybe he doesn’t believe that. Not entirely. But false reassurances do a hell of a lot more than unnecessary anxiety.

“I hate getting sick. Sure didn’t miss it when I was-” Gueira cuts off there. Bites his lip. Shuts his eyes. Meis isn’t sure if it’s because he’s about to breach a sore topic or to prevent himself from vomiting again. He doesn’t ask, and he never gets an answer. 

Gueira stays stationary for a few more minutes, his breaths heavy against porcelain, but his stomach seems to settle. So Meis helps him clean up, brush his teeth, and return to bed. His nerves continue to blaze, but as always, he shoves them down.

( iii. )

It’s nearly four in the morning when Gueira stirs, one very glossy eye cracking open. 

“Meis…?” he murmurs.

“Shh,” Meis hushes in response. “Go back to sleep.”

_ Please. You need the rest. _

But Gueira doesn’t close his eyes, nor does he lay back down. He pushes himself up on his elbows. Tries to, anyway. Meis catches his weight when he inevitably drops, feeling him shake and moan against the bed. “Gueira, just rest…”

“It hurts, damnit,” Gueira hisses, and Meis’ anxiety returns with a vengeance. 

“What hurts?” He asks, eyes manic. Gueira doesn’t answer verbally though. He clutches his side like he’s been shot and lets out a low and feral groan. Meis bolts up, carrying his sick boyfriend into the bathroom. Gueira doesn’t thank him, just leans over the toilet bowl and retches. 

Meis does his best to stay sane, he really does. But Gueira doesn’t stop, and Meis is unsure if he even  _ can _ after the first time. He keeps heaving and groaning, even when he can no longer hold himself up, and Meis tells himself that things will be perfectly fine, but he doesn’t believe that. How can he, when this all happened so abruptly? He’s not a doctor, he doesn’t know anyway about health and illness, he can’t say with absolute certainty that Gueira isn’t dying. How would he even know if he was? 

And then Meis  _ breaks _ , because Gueira is throwing up foam. Not even bile, not anymore. 

_ Oh god. _

Meis doesn’t know what to do, because he’s never seen any human this sick, let alone a Burnish, who, until recently, couldn’t get sick at all. Gueira heaves and chokes in front of him, delirium having long since settled into his eyes, and Meis can do little but watch. He tries to rein in his tremors and his fears, to return to the calm and collected person he always paints himself as. It doesn’t help that  _ he’s  _ hyperventilating, not Gueira .  _ He’s  _ not the one spread out on the bathroom floor gasping over the remnants of his stomach.  _ He’s  _ not the one who’s possibly dying.  _ He’s not the one losing control. At the very least, he  _ **_shouldn’t be._ ** But Gueira looks at him with helpless eyes just long enough to gasp out  _ ‘help,’ _ and the last remnants of Meis’ composure shatters.

In the end, he does the only thing he knows how to do; he calls an ambulance, and hopes for the best. 

( iv. )

Every time the heart monitor beeps, Meis feels his heart mimic the pattern. That, should,  _ theoretically _ , be indicative that he’s not stressed. It’s how human physiology works—stress hormones raise blood pressure, and then the cardiovascular system works twice as hard, something something, fight or flight response—Meis never studied medicine, but he does know the basics.

So, his heartbeat settles into a steady rhythm alongside Gueira’s own, and clearly he’s not stressed. Never mind that his breathing is still uneven, labored. Never mind that his hands shake and his head feels clouded. Never mind that there’s an invisible weight chained to his chest. That his stomach is churning. That his jaw is tense.

Never mind.

Meis watches Gueira sleep as though he might disappear at a moment's glance away. It’s funny how prevalent his own anxiety is, given that  _ he _ wasn’t the one rushed away by emergency responders.  _ He  _ wasn’t dragged into an operating room for immediate surgery.  _ He  _ wasn’t the one who almost died.

But that’s just the thing, isn’t it? 

Meis might be his own person, and he might be perfectly fine in his own flesh and blood, but Gueira is his entire world, and he’d almost  _ died- _ Meis is lucky he’s functioning enough to wait at his partner’s bedside, he thinks. All the years of evading capture have paid off, even if only in teaching him to ignore the anxiety thrumming under his skin.

It’s funny to think about. That just under a year ago they’d been so much more vulnerable, living on the run, out in the open, struggling to just survive- and yet, their flames had kept them safe. Healthy.  _ Alive _ . They hadn’t worried about the cold, because they had internal fires burning much hotter when the temperature dropped outside. They hadn’t worried about injuries because their flesh could handle most anything thrown at them; they would heal and get up anew with the rising sun. They hadn’t worried about illness because their bodies burned out infections before they became much more serious than a headache or sniffles.

It’s so fucking funny. 

It’s difficult to say whether or not Gueira would’ve escaped this, had their flames lingered. The doctors don’t know. Meis isn’t a medical practitioner, and he really doesn’t know either. Appendicitis is not an issue of microbiology. It’s not something that could be burned out, and he’s unsure it’s something that could have been healed without corrective surgery—

They just don’t know. And that should be enough to reassure Meis, to know that they aren’t any more vulnerable now than they were before. That they’re not truly lost. That they aren’t so breakable. But that’s the funny thing about anxiety; it doesn’t listen to logic.

The facts are thus: Gueira had appendicitis, he’d been rushed to the hospital just in time for the life-saving surgery needed to prevent infection. He will be discharged soon, and he’ll make a full recovery. Meis will take care of him as his incision heals. Everything will be fine.

But. Gueira had almost died. If Meis hadn’t panicked and called an ambulance... Well. It doesn’t really matter, does it? 

_ ( Except it does. Gueira is everything to him, and he’d almost lost him. He doesn’t want to be alone. Burnish seemed invincible, to some degree, but now they’re just ordinary humans. Fragile. Capable of death. Meis doesn’t want to outlive his partner.) _

It’s a dangerous train of thought. Meis does his best to push it away. Gueira remains limp in the hospital bed, but he’s sleeping peacefully, so Meis tries to think optimistically. He succeeds, if only for a little while. But it’s enough to get him through the night.

  
  


( v. )

Gueira is discharged from the hospital but the anxiety still doesn't leave Meis alone. Logically, he knows he should talk about these things. Maybe. It would be easier to process if he were to bring it up, to lay his cards on the table. Gueira would help him.

Gueira has his own worries. He’s preoccupied with his recovery. He doesn’t need the added burden of Meis’ worries along with it. Meis carries him out to the cab, props him up during the ride back to their small apartment, and helps him up the three flights of stairs. Gueira doesn’t have the energy for such a trip on his own - not enough energy for the emotional weight of… whatever  _ this  _ is. It would be too much. Meis would rather stay silent.

He’s preparing food when he feels arms wrap around him, and he nearly cuts himself with the knife. Awkwardly, he sets the blade down and spins to face his worn-out boyfriend.

“Should you be up?”

“I’m fine. What’s bothering you?”

Meis freezes, surprise drawing his brows together. “What?”

“You get this face when you’re stressed,” Gueira says, and he’s never felt so transparent before in his entire life. 

Of course. It makes sense that his partner would see through his poorly feigned stoicism; they’ve literally been through hell together. Meis knows Gueira’s quirks and habits intimately; reading him is as natural as breathing. Unfortunately, it’s a double-edged sword. Meis can’t hide anything from him. 

“Meis? You can talk to me ya know, I’m here, definitely alive and breathing and capable of listening to whatever you–”

But Meis cuts him off. “You almost died.” 

And isn’t that the heart of the thing. Gueira might be alive, but he almost  _ wasn’t _ . 

There’s a moment of silence, and Meis wonders if Gueira will laugh it off, as though it’s nothing because isn’t it just so  _ funny– _ but he doesn’t. He frowns, runs a gentle hand through long locks of hair, and presses a gentle kiss to Meis’ nose. “That’s what’s got ya so worked up? I’m here with you, I survived. We’ve been through much worse, ya know.”

It’s… Not entirely that simple. Meis doesn’t really know how to verbalize his anxieties and fears. Not when they’re so  _ absurd  _ to begin with. He  _ knows  _ they’re not logical. He knows. It doesn’t change that they exist, that they’re stuck in his damn brain, or the fact that he can’t fucking  _ let it go  _ like he so desperately  _ wants  _ to. Meis feels stuck.

“When we were Burnish. We didn’t get sick. Not like this–”

And Gueira, bless his soul, presses their lips together, effectively quieting the roar of his thoughts. It’s only temporary, but it calms him. “Meis, shh… I get it, I think. There was less that could permanently harm us before? Right? That’s what your brain wants you to focus on?” Meis simply nods. “Well, newsflash– I’m still stronger than I look, and I ain’t goin’ anywhere. So you’re stuck with me.”

It’s funny that so few words can have such an intense pacifying effect on Meis. It shouldn’t. The amount of time he spent fixating on such a simple, seemingly insignificant issue–He wonders if all he needed was Gueira’s optimism from the start. “Y-yeah…” He murmurs, pressing his forehead to Gueira’s own and shutting his eyes. “Sorry.”

And Gueira laughs  _ now,  _ tapping lightly at his shoulder. “Silly. Don’t apologize, just relax. I’m okay.  _ We’re okay. _ ”

“I was scared of losing you,” Meis murmurs.

“I know.”

“I don’t think I could bear it.”

“I don’t think I could either.”

They stay pressed together for a few more minutes before Gueira winces. “I’m definitely fine, but do you mind if lay down? My stitches are killin’ me.”

Meis laughs, the feeling so surreal given how distressing the past couple days have been, and flicks him in the forehead. “Go,” he says. “I’ll finish making your soup.”

“Fuck yes!”

Just like that, Meis knows everything will be fine. Gueira may not be invincible, and neither is he. They lost a lot of their strength when the Promare left. It’s still terrifying if Meis dwells on it for too long, so he doesn’t. As long as they have each other, maybe, just maybe, they can overcome anything.

  
  
  



End file.
